


Buy You A Popsicle?

by Curlew



Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: Gen, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:34:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23293330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curlew/pseuds/Curlew
Summary: Hutch takes a swim. He doesn’t like it much. VERY tenuously Fix related.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	Buy You A Popsicle?

Starsky glanced sideways at his passenger. As his grandma would have said, his partner was “madder’n a wet cat” And probably wetter. A routine bust at the docks had turned out to be less routine than they had expected, and, although they had arrested all the right people, a combination of a surprisingly tough bad guy and his innate klutziness had ended up with Hutch taking a dive into the freezing ocean, catching first his head and then his arm on sharp edges on the way down. A flurry of activity resulted in all the bad guys in black and whites on the way down town, and Hutch, rigid with cold and fury, on his way to the ER, despite his protestations that all he needed was home, a hot shower, some bandaid and a couple of aspirin. Starsky listened to the protestations, nodded, and drove on. He had checked head and arm at the scene and knew, as Hutch did, that both needed stitches, but he also knew that Hutch needed to vent. So he let him. 

Three hours later, they were in the car again. Hutch was pale and quiet, his arm and head neatly dressed. He had been given what he considered an unnecessarily thorough examination, an X ray, a total of twelve stitches - four in his head and eight in his arm. And three injections. It was the last that he was grouchiest about. The doctor had been firm, and completely resistant to either snit or charm.

“Three shots, Starsky. When does anyone get three shots at once?” Starsky flashed him a sympathetic grin.

“Well, if I remember the good doctor’s words - “Sargent Hutchinson, this one is anti tetanus. It’s not my fault you’re not up to date with your routine shots. This is for the pain you’re going to be feeling soon. And this is an antibiotic. You know as well as I do what’s pumped into the harbor on a daily basis. Do you want to lose your arm to an infection?” - Seemed reasonable to me, partner”

Hutch opened his mouth to object- then sighed  
“I guess. But the needles just freaked me out. And my butt hurts more than my arm does now”

“But not as much as your head does, huh? And you’re cold and tired and miserable. I’ll take you home and make you some hot tea and tuck you in - you’ll feel better soon” Starsky risked a smile and a gentle hand on Hutch’s rigid shoulder. He stiffened more, then relaxed, resting his cold face against the warm fingers.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Starsk. I just feel like shit. And I feel like a moron. Tripping over my own fucking feet. And I feel....

“Yep. Not one of your better days, I agree.” Starsky agreed sympathetically. It was a perfect storm of misery for Hutch. The very public klutzy fall. The barely concealed amusement of his fellow officers - once they knew he wasn’t badly hurt of course, they weren’t completely heartless.. The teasing he knew was to come in the squad room. How Hutch hated to be laughed at. The unknown and disconcertingly thorough doctor. And, worst of all- the shots. Only Starsky knew the effort of will it had taken for his partner to be still and breathe and suppress his personal demons through what for anyone else would be an unpleasant but perfectly routine treatment. He had lain, tense with terror and milk white as the nurse, chatting cheerfully, swabbed his skin and slid the needles in, One into the muscle of his upper arm. One into what the nurse insisted was his “hip”. And, worst of all, one into the vein in his elbow. Starsky realized this was going to happen, knew it would be bad, and casually made sure his hand was in easy grabbing distance. The same hand that he now left, seemingly absentmindedly, resting against his partner’s face. Hutch hadn’t grabbed, but now it was over, he leaned.

“You did good, partner”

Hutch snorted.

“What- because I didn't scream or cry or carry on? Because I was a soldier? Starsky, I’m 30. Not 6”

“True. But most 6 year olds aren’t fighting PTSD every time they go to the doctor’s office. Anyway, I think you definitely deserve a popsicle. Shall I stop at the store and get you one?”

Hutch glared at his friend. Then he laughed. He would feel better soon. In fact, he was starting to feel better already.


End file.
